Lady of Shame (17 page)

Disappointed about the veto on the lovemaking, Claire nodded. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Bien sûr.’

‘Where did you get that French order you wore on your chest?’ It was odd that it troubled her, but it had looked so right on his chest, as if it belonged there.

‘From a pawn shop in Paris.’

When she said nothing, he set the horse in motion. Her body ached, her blood hummed. But there was nothing to be done about it. The kiss had been an accident. Another one that must never be repeated.

She supposed she was fortunate the man had so much honour. He could easily have taken advantage. She didn’t feel fortunate. She felt frustrated. And the future seemed bleak.

They passed through the gates and up the drive in silence. When they stopped outside the front door, he leapt clear, helping her down carefully, but keeping her at a distance. As he should. According the rules.

The front door opened and there was no time for anything, not even words. She scuttled inside the house.

‘That’s a fancy rig you came home in,’ the footman said.

She handed him her cloak. ‘Yes. It was.’ André was full of surprises. But, she realised as the footman handed her a candle, she knew no more about him now than she had when they’d first met, because she’d been too busy telling him all of her troubles. Perhaps that was part of the attraction. His mystery. ‘Goodnight, Mark.’

‘Goodnight, madam.’

It would not be a good night. Because she would be thinking about André, and that kiss. And wishing things were different.

Chapter Fifteen

J
eremy, a huge man, with dark twinkling eyes above jolly fat cheeks and an enormous belly, arrived the morning after the assembly. Determined to end the affair with Claire, André had written to him days before. Jeremy had agreed to exchange positions for the last two weeks of André’s contract. They had worked together at Grillons and had liked each other on sight. Now André would take his place back at the famous London hotel.

After a tour of the kitchen and cellars, it was time to introduce him to Claire. Time to tell her he was leaving. Much as he regretted it, this was the right thing to do. As they took the stairs, Jeremy began to puff loudly. André adjusted his pace. ‘You need to lose some of that belly,
mon ami
.’

Jeremy patted his paunch. ‘Creams and sauces of the very finest distinction put that there. My sauces. So stow your criticism.’ He gave André a considering glance. ‘You look as if you haven’t eaten properly in weeks. Do they run you ragged?’

‘
Non, mon ami.
You will see it is all very simple. Just one dinner party planned for tonight, then nothing but the family. Though I understand Lord Giles, Mrs Landes-Fraser and Lady Phaedra are expected in a day or so.’

Jeremy raised a brow. ‘And Mrs Holte?’

‘Madame Holte and her daughter eat like birds.’

Jeremy’s sharp eyes looked at him for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘The plans for your hotel proceed well?’

Glad of the change of topic, André slapped his friend on the shoulder. It was like striking a mountain. ‘Another month and everything will be in place. I just need to firm up one or two more investors.’

‘I have no doubt you will do it. It is good to see a man achieve his dream.’

‘Thank you.’ André paused on the stairs. ‘And thank you for agreeing to assist with my plan for this evening.’

‘We’ll find out who is ruining these dinners. Don’t you worry about that.’

‘I hope so. It is important for the
madame
that the evening goes well.’

Jeremy raised a brow. ‘It seems you have more than a passing interest in what Mrs Holte thinks.’

Was he actually feeling heat in his cheeks? ‘Nonsense. What makes you say such a thing?’

‘Your voice. The look on your face. You had it the first time you mentioned her too. Don’t tell me you have fallen for your employer’s daughter. Is she the reason for your hasty departure?’

His friend saw too much. ‘Now you are being more ridiculous than usual. She is his sister and I have grown fond of her child.’

‘Her child?’ Jeremy’s astonishment was palpable. André had expressed his dislike of families on more than one occasion. The big man narrowed his gaze. ‘You like her. Does she know who you are?’

She did, but she hadn’t believed it. He shrugged. ‘What would that serve?’ He started walking again.

Jeremy hurried after him. ‘Life is about more than getting on in the world, you know. The right woman can make it all worthwhile.’

A spurt of anger heated his blood. A woman could also destroy. Look at Marie Antoinette. Or his mother. He clung to that anger, took strength from it, took a deep breath and gave a careless chuckle. ‘So speaks the man who’s been courting the same woman for five years.’

‘Exactly my point. And she’ll come around too, when I have something to offer.’

‘There are enough women in London that I don’t need to settle on one.’

Jeremy gave him a long look. ‘Ah, but a wife, now that’s different. And a family. If you like her child, think how you will feel about your own.’

His own children. With a woman like Claire. She would protect her child with her life. But she was a rare woman. He’d never imagined himself married. He’d always lived for himself, at first for survival and then for his goals.

‘I don’t want a wife. I don’t need one.’ In the past the thought of marriage had made him feel ill, yet somehow he could imagine a life with Claire.

No. Casual relationships. That was all he had ever wanted. He would never settle on just one woman. Never become too attached. Women were fickle. They abandoned you when you needed them most. His heart stilled as a vision of his mother’s face swam in his mind’s eye. Her beauty. Her gay little smile before she galloped away. Damnation, why would the past haunt him now, when he’d scarcely given it a thought for years?

He’d seen it with his mother and he’d seen it happen to friends. Better to enjoy and move on before things got painful.

It was not his concern that Claire was shouldering this burden alone and in such an unacceptable way.

There was nothing he could do for her. Not even if he claimed his birthright. The title was worth nothing. And besides, he would never do that. Not for anyone.

Their arrival at the drawing room door put paid to his uncomfortable thoughts.

When her voice bid them enter, his gut clenched. He wasn’t sure if it was because he thought she would not like the news of his departure, or because she might be indifferent. Or because he knew he was being cowardly using the presence of his friend to prevent any personal discussion.

He ushered Jeremy in. She wore a soft dove-grey gown that matched her eyes, which widened at the sight of Jeremy. Such a modest gown that only hinted at the swell of her breasts where lace lay against her creamy skin. He didn’t need to see their form to recall their shape or their weight in his palms, or the feel of her satiny skin. All those memories were seared into his soul.

Her cheeks flushed as if she guessed at his thoughts, but her gaze moved on to his companion, a question in her eyes.

‘This is Chef Jeremy, Madame Holte,’ André said swiftly. ‘He is replacing me for the last two weeks of my contract.’

She swallowed her gasp of surprise, but her shock was there on her face, along with dismay and hurt. Why had he expected anything different? He should never have seduced her. He’d let her think there could be more, even though he’d tried to warn her.

He watched her pull herself together, bravely adjust to what his words meant, with a sick feeling in his gut. He kept his face impassive. For her sake. For his own.

‘Leaving?’ She took a little breath, shook her head slightly. She looked first at Jeremy, then at him. ‘And dinner tonight?’

‘Chef Jeremy will assist me. We will find out who is spoiling the food before I leave.’ It was the best he had to offer. To make sure all would go smoothly for her. ‘I have an idea. If you would permit?’

She rose to her feet and drifted to the window, looking out. Her shoulders rose and fell as she fought for the calmness he admired so much. Finally she turned to face them. ‘Tell me your idea.’

She’d come to terms with his news. He could still see the hurt in her eyes, and some stupid part of him was glad that she cared enough to feel hurt. While another part was furious he’d let it get so far out of hand. But whatever he was feeling, what he was doing was right.

Jeremy held out the paper they had worked on together. ‘We will serve the meal
à la Russe.
’

‘The way they do in Russia,’ André added. ‘It controls the food coming to the table. I saw it when I was with Napoleon.’

‘And we did it at the Pultney in 1814 for the tsar’s party,’ Jeremy added. ‘Let me explain.’

* * *

Claire looked paler than usual. The soft candlelight shone gold in her hair, but tension lurked in her jaw and around her mouth. She was suffering. And it was all his fault.

Hell, he wasn’t exactly enjoying watching her entertain this Carstairs, a man of ruddy complexion, fair hair and a suave tongue. A man she might marry. There was something too smooth about him. Too charming. Hands curling into fists as he stood beside the sideboard, he wished he’d let Jeremy serve in the dining room and remained in the kitchen. Except that Lumsden would never have accepted Jeremy’s presence in his domain. He was barely accepting of André.

And besides, he had promised Claire he would be the one to make sure nothing went wrong this evening.

For once, His Grace was present at dinner. On any other occasion, André would have been pleased. Tonight not so much. Not when they were trying something so very different.

So far the duke hadn’t seemed to notice anything and was sipping at his mushroom and leek soup with relish.

‘Well, Carstairs,’ His Grace said after a few mouthfuls, ‘what news from Town? What are the latest
on-dits
?’

Carstairs beamed. ‘They say Princess Charlotte is once more engaged in the happy pastime of trying to produce an heir.’

Claire glanced at her brother, who seemed oblivious to the racy turn of the conversation. She glanced at André and he saw that she was stifling a giggle. He raised a reproving brow, and kept his face blank.

Reverend Seagrove, who had come alone, cleared his throat. ‘I am sure we will all be very glad of an heir to the throne. The regent and his brothers are terrible fellows. I hadn’t liked the idea of a foreign prince, but this Leopold chap seems sensible.’

‘I heard he had the princess firmly under his thumb. And she looks the better for it,’ Carstairs said.

His Grace lowered his brows. ‘And the disturbances in the countryside?’

It was something every great landowner should be concerned about, André thought morosely. If they didn’t find a way to employ all these starving people, Britain might well find itself following in France’s footsteps. Bitterness burned in the back of his throat. No one would be safe if that happened. Not women. Not children. As he knew from firsthand. His gaze once more sought Claire’s face and a surge of protectiveness gripped him.

If things went bad, he would come to her aid. Married or not. Men like this Carstairs, soft men who had everything handed to them on a platter, had no idea how to deal with the mob once they went on the rampage.

‘There is talk of spies and infiltrators. But I cannot tell how true it is. My main reason for being in Town was to attend a lecture on fossils at the British Institute.’

Fossils, when there were such important matters at hand. André felt his lip curl and pulled himself together. The conversation was nothing to do with him. The duke had finished his soup and it was time to bring the next course. André signalled to the footmen to start clearing the plates.

‘You are a scientist, Mr Carstairs?’ Claire asked.

‘I dabble a bit,’ Carstairs said. He frowned as the footman whipped his plate away. ‘I say, is dinner over?’

Claire smiled sweetly. ‘We are following the new fashion,’ she said.
‘Service à la Russe.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Carstairs said grumpily. ‘I wanted more soup.’

The duke frowned and looked at Claire.

‘It is the service used by the Russian imperial family,’ she said. ‘I thought we might try it. I hear it is all the rage in London. The next course will be along immediately.’

The next course was the meat and fish course. André watched its arrival with an eagle eye. Some of the platters were placed on the table for the guests to help themselves. The footmen offered the others down each side of the table and then to His Grace at the head and to Claire at the foot of the table. The duke looked confused. ‘Are we supposed to all eat the same thing at the same time?’

‘That is the idea,’ Claire said with an encouraging smile.

‘How odd. I always said these Russians were a barbaric lot.’

André frowned, losing track of the conversation as he counted the dishes, the ones on the table and the ones being served by the footmen. Something was missing.

Claire was also looking around. She glanced over her shoulder at the door as if she was expecting another dish. When she caught André’s eye, she gave him a speaking look and then glanced at Carstairs.

The jugged hare. It had not arrived. This was the course during which they had agreed it would make its appearance. Early in the proceedings. As a safeguard. Had Jeremy forgotten it, or had something happened?

He bowed, though no one noticed beside Claire, and slipped from the room.

A grim-faced Jeremy was waiting just outside the door. ‘We have your culprit,’ he said.

‘Who?’ André tensed, fearing it would be Joe Coyle and the lad would be turned off at once.

‘The scullery maid, Becca.’

‘What?’

‘I’m afraid so. I can’t get a word out of the stupid woman—she is bawling her eyes out.’

‘Send her to her room and lock her in. We will deal with her later. You have sent for the replacement?’

‘Aye, it should arrive from the Dower House kitchen at any moment.’

André clapped his friend on the back. ‘Then we will take it with the next course.’

Jeremy nodded and went puffing off back to the kitchen. André returned to his place in the dining room. The course was well under way and, as before, the duke had set down his knife and fork. The man was eating more, but not a great deal more.

André would give the others a little more time, in order for the jugged hare to arrive, but not much, for the duke was looking around for something else and he had already sampled everything from this course.

He felt Claire’s gaze watching him. Wondering what was happening. Wondering about the dish that had not arrived. But there was nothing he could do or say. Not in front of the guests. He shot her a flicker of a smile and hoped she took from it that everything was under control. Hoped that she trusted him to make sure all went well this time.

Her tiny nod of acknowledgement was all that he needed. In spite of everything, it seemed that she trusted him in this. He could only watch in admiration as she played the perfect hostess, pointing out dishes that might have been missed by her guests, encouraging each guest to participate in the conversation by gentle questions. She was a lady. This was where she belonged.

He could not give her this life. He was right to leave.

Yet his skin crawled and his fingers tingled every time he looked at the florid Carstairs.

‘Your Grace sets a sumptuous table,’ Mr Carstairs said with obvious relish as he helped himself to a
vol au vent
of salt fish.

‘So I should hope,’ His Grace said. ‘Too bad the man won’t stay, but you know what it is with these Frenchies. High strung, the lot of ’em.’